Paul Robeson: Portraits Of The Artist: Criterion Collection

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All Rise...

While his movies range from well-meaning to mediocre, there is no doubt about Paul Robeson's lasting legacy. Judge Bill Gibron recommends that all true film fans and motion-picture historians give this amazing chronicle from Criterion their full aesthetic attention.

The Charge

A marginalized man reborn!

Opening Statement

It's so easy to name all the things Paul Robeson was: son of an ex-slave who
himself went on to graduate from college and become a minister; only the third
black student ever accepted at Rutgers (and the only one on campus at the time);
astar athlete and All-American; valedictorian; law school graduate and
practicing attorney; singer; concert virtuoso; writer; thinker; activist;
Socialist; Broadway star; Shakespearean actor; enemy of the United States;
self-exiled expatriate—that it's easy to forget what he's not. A
superstar. Granted, he's a well-worn icon in the world of ethnic entertainers, a
premier example of stoicism and skill overcoming some of the most tenuous and
tumultuous times in American history. Yet no matter how many degrees he hung on
his wall or battles he chose to fight for both himself and his people, the films
he made are not the missing masterpieces in the overall history of
African-American cinema. Instead, they are obvious examples of one amazing human
figure being improperly pigeonholed within a horribly racist entertainment
dynamic. That's the chief revelation to be gleaned from the Criterion
Collection's new box-set release, Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist.
His body of work may be impressive for what it means, given the background of
when and where it was created. But this is a clear case of the whole being much
more valuable than the many pieces that comprise it.

Facts of the Case

He only made 11 films in his lifetime, mostly because he was disgusted by the
kinds of roles Hollywood offered minorities. He also lent his name to a
well-meaning documentary about the plight of justice and equality in the United
States. Of his creative canon, only a few select titles stand out. As part of
this Criterion Collection box set, six of Robeson's starring roles are present.
Missing of course are Show Boat, Song of Freedom, King Solomon's Mines, Big
Fella, and Tales of Manhattan. While this might disturb some purists,
it's also worth noting that this compilation contains his earliest silent films
as well as his best0known performance in the Eugene O'Neill narrative The
Emperor Jones. Specifically, here is what this impressive package has to
offer:

Body and Soul (1925) An escaped criminal posing as a preacher
(Paul Robeson) stumbles upon a small town, where he quickly begins bilking the
residents out of their hard-earned dollars. He shakes down a small-time club
owner who runs an illegal gambling racket on the side, and even violates a
naïve young girl after befriending her spiritually oriented mother. But
when a recently released cellmate shows up in town, the Reverend's grifting ways
may be exposed once and for all.

Borderline (1930) In a racist
European town, the relationship between a married white man and an
African-American girl stuns everyone—all, that is, except the patrons of a
bar run by two liberal women. They even allow a black visitor named Pete (Paul
Robeson) to stay in their boarding house. Pete once loved the adulterous woman
and he still has strong feelings for her. But the desperate spouse of the
cheating husband is put on edge by the scandalous affair—and has revenge
on her mind.

The Emperor Jones (1933) After getting a job with the Pullman
Train Company as a porter, small-town dreamer Brutus Jones (Paul Robeson) gets
taken in by big-city life. Before you know it, he's stealing his best
friendÂ's gal pal and gambling away his paycheck. When a bar fight turns
fatal, Jones goes to jail. He escapes and steals aboard a commercial liner bound
for the Caribbean. Looking to the nearest island for sanctuary, he jumps ship
and ends up in a tiny village run by a crooked king. It's not long before Jones
takes over, and turns despotic.

Sanders of the River (1935) Lord "Sandi" (Leslie
Banks, Jamaica Inn) Sanders is the British District Officer of Nigeria,
charged by the crown to maintain the law up and down the river. The tribes all
palaver with the cunning bureaucrat, a man they've come to fear and
respect—all except one. King Mofolaba fancies himself above the English
and causes random chaos for the surrounding citizenry. When a new chieftain,
Bosambo (Paul Robeson), approaches Sandi regarding the situation, he is given
the promise of power. But after taking matters into his own hands, Bosambo is
targeted by Mofolaba's warriors. In the end, it is Sandi who must save the
day.

Jericho (1937) While
crossing the Atlantic on their way to World War I, a boat loaded with U.S.
soldiers is struck by a torpedo. During the response, likable Lt. Jericho
Jackson (Paul Robeson) accidentally kills a superior officer. The resulting
court martial condemns him to death. On Christmas Eve, a desperate Jericho
escapes, steals a fishing boat, and makes his way to Africa. Along for the ride
is a wisecracking expatriate named Mike Clancy (Wallace Ford, A Patch of Blue). Soon, the pair finds
themselves living amongst one of the many desert tribes. Jericho becomes a
leader, and helps guide the people toward prosperity. In the meantime, a friend
and fellow solider, Captain Mack (Henry Wilcoxon, Caddyshack), seeks revenge on
the deserter.

The Proud Valley (1940) Hoping to find work in Wales, David
Goliath (Paul Robeson) hops a train and winds up in a small mining town. There,
his powerful physique and magnificent singing voice get the attention of the
choir director, and Goliath soon finds himself down in the pit, excavating coal.
When a cave-in leads to disaster, the mine is closed and all the workers are
left unemployed. Hoping to convince the owners to reopen the facility, Goliath
helps a young man lead a group of activists in a walk to London. Along the way,
they learn war has been declared, and hope to use the nation's needs to get the
mine up and running again.

Native Land (1942) In an intriguing documentary that wants to
trace the notion of liberty and its application and abuse over the course of
American history, actor/singer Paul Robeson lends his distinctive voice over
narration. We see stories involving the murder of sharecroppers, the torture of
men by the Ku Klux Klan, and the incredibly incendiary activities of an
anti-union corporate spy. While all of these sequences are dramatic recreations,
they are based on actual fact. Indeed, these incidents were reported to the
Senate Civil Liberties Committee in 1938. Throughout it all, Robeson sings, and
suggests ways to avoid this obvious "fascism" at home.

Paul Robeson: Tribute to an Artist (1979) A 25-minute
documentary on Robeson's life and times focuses almost exclusively on his career
in front of the camera, on stage, and as a vocal critic of U.S. policies toward
minorities.

The Evidence

It's all about the voice. Paul Robeson was not a great dramatic or comedic
actor. He didn't have the obvious performance chops of latter-day masters like
Sidney Poitier, James Earl Jones, or even contemporary figures like Denzel
Washington. While he managed the material well and never let his obvious sense
of dignity drop for a particular problematic part, Robeson is best described as
a potent personality, not the African-American Olivier. No, where his impressive
on-screen presence made its biggest impact was with that amazing bass voice of
his. It resonates across the speakers, soaking up as much of the bottom-level
frequencies as an old tinny mono recording can manage. If Nat King Cole was
smooth, sophisticated urbane cool, Robeson was his rural, rustic blood brother.
Within their combination of vocal genius lays the entire legacy of antebellum
black music. Where other movie stars manipulated their image to continue their
careers, all Robeson had to do was open his mouth and speak—or better yet,
sing. By doing so, he blotted out dozens of despicable stereotypes foisted upon
the minority populace by a white race uneasy with the group's growing
stature.

But there was more to Robeson than just strong personal pipes. There's an
indefinable "it," a sort of incomprehensible charisma that carries
across even the most melodramatic or ridiculous cinematic storyline. It may be
nothing more than pure magnetism, a conceivable chemistry that hits anyone who
comes in contact with it. The existence of this flummoxing facet to Robeson's
persona is something easily experienced in the new Criterion Collection box set.
By having an opportunity to watch the performer grow from silent-screen
archetype to mid-'40s myth, we can view the creative constants that made the man
an instant star and sense the fleeting auras that resulted in his confusing
status as a cinematic afterthought. Some will say that his desire to promote
Socialist views amid America's post-war worries about Communism created the
cloud that hangs around his legacy today. Others will point to the 11 major
motion pictures he made and state, with some certainty, that they are the reason
behind his rejection as anything other than a significant social icon.

There is much more to Robeson than highly publicized political views, a
profound singing voice, and a presence that argued against the scurrilous
segregation practiced as part of the entertainment industry and the country at
large. Indeed, he could be the kind of old-school actor who would experience a
certified aesthetic resurgence should the right context come along. And this
Criterion Collection offering may very well be that framework. When presented
alongside his other well-known works (Show Boat and Mines, in
particular), one can see the immense growth of the man as a performer and a
pioneer. Robeson never once falls into the standard clichés of the early
20th Century. Certainly there are times when he is forced into the demeaning
vernacular of the Caucasian concept of black speech, and no single human was
capable of completely washing away the massive cultural stain created by decades
donning mammy rags and referring to white folks as "massa." Still,
unlike other minority actors of the era that have to be apologized for and
retrofitted to avoid the tag of racist, Robeson never catered to the evils of
eugenics. His was a voice for total equality, a powerful call that was both his
import and his eventual downfall.

By looking at each film in this set individually, we can see Robeson grow as
an artist. Of special significance are the films he made during a self-imposed
exile to Britain in the late '20s and '30s. These movies make invaluable strides
into showcasing the black man as an undeniably equal and worthy member of
mankind. Considering the time frame in which this message was featured, to call
these films controversial is an understatement. Even several decades later, they
play as worthy wake-up calls to a generation unswerving in its "prejudice
is passé" sentiments. Let's begin with the earliest effort offered
here:

Body and Soul (1925) Score: 75 It's an incredibly odd cinematic
experience—a once lost film found and fashioned together the best way
possible—with the results being something both valuable and vile. Robeson,
in a very unclear double role (we realize he is the character Sylvester, but he
is not properly introduced into the storyline), gets to twist the Simon
Legree-style villain on its moustache twirling head. He plays a potent black
evildoer without the "animalistic" aura most motion pictures of the
time placed on such a role. Indeed, the Reverend Jenkins is suave and
sophisticated, selling his sermons and sentimental soft soap, all in the name of
a completely criminal cause. Because we can't hear Robeson's sonorous voice in
this film (it's a silent in every sense of the word, with very few title cards
offered to explain what's going on), much of his impact has to come from body
language and facial gestures, and Robeson offers amazing examples of these
performance traits. As a matter of fact, one could argue that, the minute sound
arrived, Robeson began relying on his amazing voice more than his other acting
skills. As an example of Oscar Micheaux's directorial style (he is frequently
noted as the first African-American to make a feature film with 1920's The
Homesteader), there is not much here. We have a few sets, a decent
evangelical set piece with Robeson hamming it up, and several old-fashioned
dissolves. He may be the first black artist to capture the complexities of the
black experience on film, but this is not a great example of his craft.

Borderline (1930) Score: 89 Talk
about your lost treasures—few if any of Robeson's fans have ever seen this
extremely experimental film from one-off avant-garde cinematic deconstructionist
Kenneth McPherson. With an obvious bow to Eisenstein and the use of the
editorial process as a means of shaping mise-en-scene, McPherson tells a
simple kitchen-sink drama of adultery and revenge in such a manner that it feels
alien, even to the post-millennial viewer. Robeson is nothing more than a symbol
here—a black face hated by the local populace and loathed by the wife of
an unfaithful man. When McPherson features him, the actor is statuesque and
serious, demonstrating a demeanor that demands respect and worth. It's a
brilliant contrast to the various Caucasian actors who mock the minorities
mercilessly, their mouths agape, crooked teeth cracked in nasty, knowing smiles.
Similarly, Robeson's wife in real life, Eslanda, is not portrayed as a natural
beauty. Instead, she is seen as mysterious and enigmatic, masking her allure in
ways that add intriguing layers to the already diverse storyline. This is a very
fussy film, a great deal of it style over substance. But the filmmaking approach
is so original, and the results so intriguing, that it is hard to really
criticize the completed project. There is some amazing artistry on display here,
both behind and in front of the camera.

The Emperor Jones (1933) Score: 81 To fully appreciate
Robeson's stirring turn as the title character (a role he perfected on stage
during a long run of this Eugene O'Neill hit), you're going to have to put on a
larger, more open-minded, creative thinking cap. The N-word is tossed around
here so freely and frequently you'll think you've stumbled upon an ancient
precursor to the modern rap video. In addition, as a very white man, O'Neill is
stretching his literary talents by trying to tell the story of a stoic black man
incapable of conforming to a society set on keeping him down. Therefore many of
the narrative turns, the use of uncomfortable jive jargon, and the eventual ease
of the character's corruptibility will sadden many a post-modern heart. But if
you simply accept Jones for who he is and Robeson for playing him that way, you
get a much better perspective on this problematic film. While the original was
more or less a monologue, the film version has backstory, songs, and plenty of
moments where Robeson can soar above its sentiments to make his own personal
points. As a result, we are entertained by the actor's antics, even if there is
a slightly sour taste left in our motion-picture mouth afterward.

Sanders of the River (1935) Score: 80 Perhaps the second most
unusual film in this collection comes at a time when Robeson was living in
England, working within its film industry to change the perception of the black
man in world media. That's why it's so strange to see him playing a throwback
tribal chief—albeit it a very well-spoken and Western-schooled
one—as part of a narrative which champions British colonialism and the
power of white imperialists over native culture. Indeed, as Bosambo (now,
there's an unfortunate name), Robeson must balance his obvious mental and
personal superiority against the "bwana welcome" ways of the script.
He comes across with his dignity intact, but the rest of the film really falters
as anything other than an anti-sovereignty shill. This is made clear in moments
when the tribes revert to anarchy—indulging in guns and liquor—the
minute Sanders leaves his post. It's as if the movie argues "once a savage,
always a savage." Like a smug super nanny, the "Veddy Briddish"
bureaucrat must step in and set things right. Robeson is merely some weird
window dressing here, given over to moments of jungle adventure rather than
playing a part in the possible solutions for his people. He's fine. The film is
a minor failure.

Jericho (1937) Score: 85 Considered by Robeson to be the personal favorite of all his films,
Jericho also represents the production he had the most personal influence
over. Apparently saddened by Sanders, he got the right to pick his next
project, the people he'd make it with, and the ability to reject the final cut.
As a result, the main character hear is as close to a Messianic Christ clone as
you'll get from the actor. Indeed, Robeson was strongly inspired by Jesus's
message of human equality, and used this story of a wrongly accused service man
who finds sanctuary among the peoples of the Middle East as a firm statement in
favor of one man's power to change the world. Thanks to the location work (much
of the film was shot in Egypt) and the plot that champions Robeson's idealized,
larger-than-life figure, we are caught up inside the occasionally manipulative
storyline. In fact, were it not for a third-act salt caravan that monopolizes
most of the narrative, this would be a relatively entertaining movie. Sure,
Wallace Ford is being purposefully placed in the reverse minority role, given
over to obvious buffoonery, and the ending is kind of a cop-out, but overall,
this is indeed one of Robeson's finest films.

The Proud Valley (1940) Score: 82 Not so much a movie as a
collection of short political points made all the more meaningful or meaningless
by the onset of World War II, Valley was born from Robeson's staunch
social activism. While living in Britain, he frequently read of the plight of
poor miners, locked out of jobs by greedy, capitalist businessmen. Using this
fiscal injustice as the basis for a broader look at human rights, we are
immersed in the everyday life of small-town Wales as Robeson, a wandering sailor
looking for work, stumbles upon a choral group in desperate need of his bass
voice. There is a single significant scene—a pair of miners resent
Robeson's "black" character being a part of their clique—and the
lines delivered by the white choir director mark the movie's main social theme.
It becomes all the more significant during a last-act tragedy that requires a
massive sacrifice on someone's part. Along the way, Hitler is hammered and
Nazism denounced, illustrating another issue that was close to Robeson's heart.
While it turned the film's sense of self-surrender into more of a "God,
King, and Country" dynamic, it did open up the notion of all men
helping to put down a despot. With a wealth of musical numbers and the actor's
undeniable charm, Valley manages to be engaging, if slightly
overblown.

Native Land (1942) Score: 78 The final full-length film
presented by Criterion is perhaps the box setÂ's most mediocre, but not
because of the message it offers or Robeson's stirring voiceover work. No, the
biggest problem with Native Land is its obvious propaganda slant. As
well-meaning and intellectually intended as the differing dramatizations were to
be, Native Land always feels like we're getting only one completely
biased side of the story. Granted, there is no excuse for the random killing of
innocent sharecroppers, the lynching of men solely for the color of their skin,
or the violation of inherent civil rights for some ridiculous social agenda. But
when you see an anti-Union spy metaphysically wringing his hands over the
trouble he can cause for the high-minded worker, one starts waiting for images
of the hammer and sickle to start showing up. Presented in a fair and balanced
manner, no subject is beyond discussion. But when you've suffered through
centuries of second-class citizenship, when the conservative majority has
manhandled your liberalized approaches to subjects, it seems logical to drop all
pretense of equilibrium and simply go for the throat. This is indeed what
Native Land does—both to its benefit and its obvious detriment.

As a matter of fact, if there is one main criticism that can be welded onto
Robeson's strangely scattershot career, it's the belief that he, as one man,
could change the cultural dynamic of Hollywood—and by vicarious
interaction, the world. His departure for Europe to pursue his goals is more
than noble, but seems rather self-serving. This is not meant to be a criticism.
Without a forum from which to function (and Tinseltown wasn't bowing to his
needs), Robeson would be an ineffectual spokesman. But the films he made didn't
have a fraction of the impact that his concerts and singing recitals did. When
we do get a chance to see the man sing (either within a motion-picture storyline
or as part of the bonus features offered here), it is clear that the stage was
his best cultural catalyst. In and amongst the people, with the falsifying glare
of the limelight off his formidable persona, Robeson was real and revelatory. In
some ways, these films are merely visual representations of an otherwise
unknowable human hero. It's the sum, not just the many movable parts, which
stands out here. From churlish con man to man mountain against all forms of
oppression seems like a mighty big leap, but you have to remember everything
that Paul Robeson was—including the actor who had to make these movies to
solidify his stance.

From a purely historic standpoint, this Criterion Collection box set will
seem like an important motion-picture monument. Individuals enamored with
technical specifications, however, will probably complain about the lack of
pristine prints and nominal added content. Indeed, most of these movies look
less than stellar—and the company admits as much. The 1.33:1 transfers
provided are loaded with scratches, dirt, faded sequences, and mangled editing
flaws. This does not render the movies unwatchable—far from it. But for
motion-picture purists who want their monochrome imagery to be an artistic
celebration of black-and-white, the shades of gray presentation here will be
rather underwhelming. Again, this is not a rationale reason for avoiding this
collection, just a caveat. Similarly, the flat and tinny Dolby Digital Mono
mixes will leave audiophiles cold. Thank God for Robeson's bravado bass. It
gives many of these soundtracks a decided lift in aural atmosphere. If you
listen closely, you will hear some occasional hiss and a fair share of
age-influenced popping. But overall, these ancient cinematic artifacts sound and
look just fine.

As for the added content, Criterion does the best it can with limited access
to material on the actor (his estate does a wonderful job of maintaining
Robeson's legacy). First up are a pair of commentaries, one for The Emperor
Jones (by historian Jeffery C. Stewart), the other for Body and Soul
(from scholar Pearl Bowser). The latter is really more of a love letter to Oscar
Micheaux than a clear dissection of the film. Bowser does fill in narrative gaps
and give Robeson his due, but her obvious attention to the directorial details
may miff some who want a concise discussion of the actor and his influence.
Stewart's take on Jones is far better, since it focuses on the play,
Robeson's influences on it, and the eventual leap to the big screen. He does
tend to go overboard with the well-meaning minutiae, but overall, the
conversation is genial and very engaging. Not quite as successful are the new
jazz scores—offered in Dolby Digital 2.0 Stereo—commissioned for
Body and Soul and Borderline. Granted, an old-fashioned piano or
organ soundtrack would appear wildly out of place. But only Courtney Pine
understands the logistics of silent film. While Wycliffe Gordon's take on
Body and Soul is somewhat discordant with what's happening on screen,
Pine's pitch-perfect sonic supplement helps the feel of Borderline's
bare-bones storytelling.

The first really significant contextual piece comes on the
"Pioneer" disc (containing Sanders and Jericho). There
you will find the mini-documentary on Robeson's time in Britain, and it's
fascinating stuff. Because of its colonialist past, the United Kingdom had a
much more complex handling of race relations than the United States, and the
scholars who discuss the actor's time in their country all give the man his
unquestioned due. They also have some very insightful things to say about the
two films featured and their comments help us to place these otherwise odd
efforts into perspective. In addition, on the Icon DVD (where The Emperor
Jones is located), a 30-minute documentary called Paul Robeson: Portrait
of an Artist is featured. With Sidney Poitier giving the voiceover
narration, we are walked through Robeson's acting and singing career. His past
as an athlete, intellectual, and lawyer are glanced over in favor of the story
surrounding the artist's problems with the U.S. Government. Denied a passport
when his pro-Socialist stance rubbed a McCarthy-era country the wrong way,
Robeson used his legal background to fight. The juxtaposition of this battle and
the many different lyrical changes he made to "Ol' Man River" are the
highlights of this otherwise incomplete overview. There is also a brief
discussion with Robeson's son, Paul Jr., and a conversation with Ruby Dee, James
Earl Jones, and William Greaves. Both featurettes give us great anecdotal
evidence of Robeson's influence and, along with the accompanying 76-page booklet
(with an essay from the man himself), they help provide a modern link to
Robeson's lengthy heritage.

Closing Statement

So why is it that a collection of films, none of which earn anything higher
than an above-average rating, can suddenly become a must-own DVD set. The answer
lies in who is being celebrated here, not necessarily the movies that contribute
to his myth. Just one look at Paul Robeson on the silver screen and you
instantly understand the appeal—the imposing power, the genial glint in
the corners of his wise and watchful eyes, the voice that soared like a rocket
right up to Heaven, and the conviction that won him as many critics as curtain
calls. To put it another way, Robeson the man transcended Robeson the star or
Robeson the struggling minority actor to become Robeson the emblem. Had it been
any old actor playing the part of Jericho Johnson, David Goliath, Brutus Jones,
or the Reverend Jenkins, we probably wouldn't be discussing these films. They
would merely be rare exceptions to prejudice both in America and elsewhere. But
because Paul Robeson the star, because he imbued every one of these performances
with his own personal sort of spectacle, we watch and wonder—wonder what
he could have accomplished in a more enlightened time; wonder why he had to
fight so hard to gain so very little; wonder how an entire populace could pride
themselves on calling individuals like Robeson all manner of mindblowing
epithets. He may not have been a superstar, but that didn't matter. Paul Robeson
was a man, an African-American man at that, and, at least in his eyes, that was
far more important.

The Verdict

Not guilty. Though the films included are inconsistent in their artistic
status, the overall box set from Criterion offers an important cinematic
service. It preserves the memory of a man who deserved better than he received.
Case closed.

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